200 Theme Challenge
by Xx SadoMasochist xX
Summary: 200 unrelated drabbles all following Arthur Kirkland/England's life. T for now, may change to mature later.
1. Introduction

**Okay so this is a 200 theme challenge that I took up on my RP account on deviantart, kirklandplz. **

**It's 200 themes that I'm going to be filling with drabbles in between fills of Comrade (which, is posted on my main dA account Crimson-Moonshine, not the RP one). Mainly I started this because I don't have much time during the week, being a full time college kid with a part time job, and so this is just for little bits of inspiration so that I can type bits and pieces to Comrade when I can. At the moment, the next chapter isn't NEAR done, so I'm sorry to those of you that follow that story.**

**ER-HERM. As for this, most of the drabbles have absolutely nothing to do with a pairing. Those that do, however, will be USUK because on my RP account that's the pairing my RP friend and I... well, RP (even though my OTP is actually FrUK). Before each drabble, I'll post info about it and whatnot... Hope you enjoy.**

**Theme:** Introduction

**Character/Pairings: **Arthur Kirkland AKA England

**Length:** 768 words

**Rating:** PG

**Warnings:** Extremely depressing.

* * *

In this world, where nothing else is true, I know at least I have the rain. It's the first thought that crosses my mind in the morning and the last thought to leave me before my brain drifts off into the wasteland my dreams reside in. Sometimes, I wonder if I'll ever get my head up off the ground and start looking up at the sky again. How long has it been? It seems to me as if nothing can be reality in a world that contradicts itself. I've realized how ridiculously wrapped up in my own quirky ways I have become, and it seems as if there's no way out of this barbed wire maze I've created for myself. Sometimes, I wonder what the colour of my eyes are, but I dare not look into the mirror, for fear of the disappointment reflecting in them.

Sometimes I just get the urge to burn down all that I have built for myself, everything I have ever accomplished, just to see the gleam of the fire. Sometimes I wonder if the ribbing by my colleagues is of a jeering matter, or if I really am truly mad. I think I feel disconnected from reality all of the time, and I can only seem to find my masks anymore. One must wonder where the poor, pathetic man that resides in this shell lives. Maybe the vultures living in the lie have finally picked him off.

Sometimes, it feels as if no one could ever get into my head without suffering through some severe trauma. While I do not have a smile on my face all the time, the upright and stony face I wear daily is a mask, and when it may not appear to be so, I am severely unhappy. Mostly, I am unhappy with myself, as I have failed every single thing I have set up to do. It also stands up to perfect logic and region that, by myself failing in such a manner, I am consistently useless.

And so I just sit here, drinking my earl grey with a biscuit sitting untouched beside the saucer. Music does nothing to console me, as my heart has been heavy for years. It seems I have forgotten the formula to being content. Maybe I've fine-tuned my perspective to only rest on the empty glass, the last few drops of water glistening dully with these dying hopes of mine. I get chills as I write this, terrified someone may be reading over my shoulder and realize I am not simply taking notes on what my colleagues are saying.

Maybe it's good to let this all out of my chest, because I feel choked up and destroyed with the weight cracking my ribs. Maybe I simply need to ignore the things that plague me, and not let things hit me so hard. It hurts to know you're repulsive, however, and yet I completely understand the sneers sent my way. I wouldn't like me either, I suppose.

It makes one wonder why I still stumble through this world, knowing I have failed beyond repair and knowing I will never be the proud, _brave_ man I had once been. People become annoyed with me when I reminisce, but honestly it is the only thing I feel I have left. After all, if everyone you had ever cared for had left you, wouldn't you feel much the same?

Sometimes my throat feels dry and my eyes feel wet, and it begins to rain. I just smile through the downpour, hugging my arms and blinking away water I swear is streaming from my hair and not my eyes. I suppose if someone cared enough for me, it would be worrisome, but the evidence that I even do such an ungentlemanly thing hardly exists. The only reason someone would know is if they cared enough to watch me slip through the crack of the door, into the sticky and wet air.

Sometimes, I just wish I had someone to reach out to me and tell me what it is that can make me forget. Just help me stop self-medicating with scotch and tea and just _smile,_ a genuine _smile_ for once in my life. I want someone to reach out and take my hand as I whisper, "Who am I?"

And I want a simple reply. I want someone to tell me who I am, and accept me as such. I, am Arthur Kirkland, the United Kingdom of Britain and Northern Ireland, and I am possibly the only one to find solace in the rain.


	2. Love

**Theme:** Love

**Character/Pairings: **Arthur Kirkland AKA England/Alfred F Jones AKA America.

**Length:** 1,086 words

**Rating:** PG-13

**Warnings:** Extremely depressing, mentions of 9/11, language.

* * *

Fear and hate are the strongest forms of emotion. Love and lust are some others that show pure, unadulterated feeling. When the two extremes mix, it is the oddest feeling of being rooted to the spot, unable to move and yet wanting nothing more than to flinch away. The four emotions mixed caused an unstoppable force, much like gravitation, in the center of one's soul.

It is with this thought that I hesitantly knocked on Alfred's door after a visit from Francis. The American is in a bad way, I was told, and the idea of Alfred hurt sends shivers down my spine. At this moment, I knew I couldn't stay away from the lad. He needed me, more than he had ever needed me in his entire life. I felt that gravitation deep in my soul, urging me forward even as I stood still on the concrete steps.

Fear I felt, yes, but not of Alfred. The fear that I felt was of the things that might happen to Alfred, because he was severely injured. It was this that kept my index finger hovering above the doorbell to his New York loft. I was so bloody scared of the outcome of the attacks on him that it made me stand frozen at this door. It almost physically hurt, how scared I was for him. If he was truly as bad as Francis made it out to be, I was terrified of how I would react and of seeing the American in such a way.

Hate went rampant in my frontal lobe as well. I wanted to maim, mutilate, and fucking torture whoever had done this to my Alfred. Nobody hurt him, unless it was I, throttling him for being stupid. Oh, the hatred I felt towards the people that touched him, _burned_ him. It made my teeth grit down hard enough to hurt. Yes, hate coursed through me, but it only deepened the fear and concern I held for my former charge. I also hated myself for hesitating, standing here when I should be inside and taking care of him. I hated myself for not being quicker in my travels… Maybe, had I been here three days earlier, I could've at least helped prevent the attacked on him. Of course, I knew that this day, the 11th of September, 2001, was not my fault, but somehow I felt hatred towards my self for not being here, all the same.

It made me lust for revenge. I lusted for the stupid bastards who had attacked him to _burn_, I wanted them to _writhe_ and even more so I wanted them to stare up at me and plead, just as Alfred must have pleaded as they attempted to rip his heart out. I lusted for justice, and I lusted for absolution. I vowed that I would help Alfred no matter the damage to myself, because I also yearned for the other nation to heal. Yes, lust ran through me like electrical currents, but it was a lust purer than any that could be caused by touches. The lust for revenge is strong enough to corrupt one's views and twist them until their morals are nothing of what they once were. And, I was fully prepared to corrupt my morals for Alfred.

Because I loved him. Hell, I _love_ him. I love him more than anything in this world and simply hearing the whimpers coming from his open bedroom windows sends _knives_ through my soul, torturing me with every sound because I _love_ him, I _adore_ him, and I'd _give anything_, even my own _life_ for him. I would torture myself if he'd only ask, throw myself into the ocean and drown for him, jump in front of a bullet for him if only to save him from the brief pain they caused. And so, I resolved to fight to the death for him, skipping the doorbell and simply letting myself in with my key to his New York loft. "Alfred?"

I was met with a whimper, and I winced as I walked forward. "A-Arty, Arty I'm i-in h-h-here…"

The trembling from his voice made me feel as if I had been doused by cold water, and it took all of my will to move forward. When he came into view I rushed over and fell to my knees beside his bed, taking his hand in my and squeezing it while letting out a pained little, 'oh,' as I couldn't force myself to look away. There was a deep _hole_ in his shoulder, oh god a ruddy fucking charred _hole_, and his face was flushed with fever, and _god_ he looked… Looked…

I couldn't bring myself to even think it. "Alfred… Oh, Alfred…"

A look of pure horror was stretched across my face, I knew, and yet I couldn't force it away, even with the grim determination to be strong for him. He smiled softly, wincing with pain as he tried to move a bit. "H-hey Arty… N-nice to see ya."

The weak laugh that followed made me want to cry. Alfred was so _strong_; he couldn't be in this way. Not the one I loved enough to die for… Not the one who protected me as much as I him. It hurt, seeing him like this, and yet here he was, laughing and trying to comfort _me_, because I'm so _bloody weak_ that I can't stand seeing him so hurt. I laughed slightly, shakily, because I couldn't force my voice to go even. "N-nice to see you too, dear… A-Alfred… How are y-you holding up?"

"Heroes don't suffer… Th-they ignore the pain…. K-keep on trucking."

A small, wounded laugh came from deep within and I retorted, "Stop being the _hero_ for once, Al, it's okay to be _hurt_…"

Alfred just smiled, squeezing my hand lightly and whispering, "But i-if I stopped being a hero, I'd be l-leaving you, a-alone. I w-won't leave you t-to get hurt, Arty… I l-love you too muh-much."

With that, I leaned my head against his stomach and sobbed for him. I sobbed as he rubbed my back comfortingly, and whispered vows of being his hero, bringing down the ones that hurt him because I loved him too much to say anything else. Everything would be okay. I would make sure of it. Nothing would ever harm him again, because I wouldn't allow it to… I love him far too much to lose him.


	3. Light

**Theme:** Light

**Character/Pairings: **Arthur Kirkland AKA England

**Length:** 555 words

**Rating:** G

* * *

It was rare that the sun shone in England, but whenever it did I felt the highest form of elation. It was so rare to not see a cloud in the sky, or rather see a hint of blue in the vast expanse of grey. I burn easily in the harsh rays of the sun because of where I live, but it never stops me from calling my boss and feigning sick so as to skip the meeting on that sunny, cloudless day. I always make my way to the countryside and lay in the grass, soaking up the cool, breezy air and just allowing myself to enjoy it. My boss always knows I'm not sick, and always reminds me that a day off is good once in a while, but all the same I feel a bit guilty skipping out on the meetings.

All the same, these days helped me to fully _relax_, just lay back and enjoy the warmth of sunbeams dancing on my face. I loved the feel of the sun kissing my eyelids; skin a vibrant orange-red with the permeation of light. Thistles, clover and grass tickle my skin as I lay in the light, feeling like faerie fingers as they brush lovingly across my skin with the cool breeze. Sometimes I just lay there with my eyes closed, just basking in the light. Others I brought a sketchpad and drew or wrote as I listened to the music the wind made. Sometimes, more recently, I brought some sort of music player and listened for a while, but it never beat the indescribably feeling I felt to hear the sounds of far off water in the wind's wake.

Today was one of those days. Alfred had just gone back to the states the day before, and so I was happy to see the sun peeking through my window in the morning. Not one cloud marred the perfect blue expanse, and as always the first thing I did after making my breakfast tea was call my boss. I didn't even get a word out past hello before I heard my boss chuckling. "It's sunny, isn't it."

I smiled slightly murmuring back, "Erm… why, yes. Yes it is…"

"Go. You've the day off."

I smiled, picking up my tea cup and chuckling slightly. "Thank you sir. You know me best… Say hello to the family for me."

The Prime Minister mumbled a reply, and we said our goodbyes. It was nice to have such an understanding boss. Stretching languidly, I yawned before taking a sip of tea. It was only 6:30, and I had all the time I could want today. There was no point in frustrating myself by running around and rushing. By the time I had finished my tea, it was fully light out and the faeries living around my home were dancing in the sunbeams.

Chuckling slightly as one of them came along sighed me and chirped a hello, I responded and stood. The plan for the day: nap in the sun, pack a picnic so that I don't have to come home too early for lunch. Bring a thermos of tea. Draw and write. Today, as it was a Light day, was going to be a good one. This I knew, deep in my heart.


	4. Dark

**Theme: **Dark

**Length: **1,084 words

**Characters/Pairings: **Arthur Kirkland AKA England / Alfred F. Jones AKA America

**Rating: **G, EXTREMELY fluffy.

* * *

The last waning bits of sunlight had disappeared hours before, and I had set up shop in my study hours around lunchtime that afternoon. I had skipped dinner in my concentration, opting instead to continue drawing with a new set of coloured pencils I had gotten at the market while shopping that morning. My hard work had paid off, and I stared down at my picture with a sort of self-confident pride that I only gained through drawing.

It looked good. It looked _really_ good. Self-confidence sufficiently boosted, my hunger and fatigue hit me and I had decided to go into the kitchen to get something to eat. Glancing at my watch with a slight worry eating at me, I realized that I had not heard Alfred come home. I frowned, biting my lip and generally worrying. The American had been walking everywhere, and hadn't really spent much time here at home with me (not that he should have even been here for more than two weeks- it was going to hurt terribly when he left) but he at least was home by dark half the time.

Sighing, I made my way down the hallway and into the darkened kitchen, feeling along the wall for the light switch. Most of the time I wandered around in the dark, but if Alfred were still out I wanted him to at least see I was still awake should he decide to stumble home. I shook all my insecurities out of my head, rubbing my neck awkwardly as I went about putting the kettle on the stove. It was then and only then that I heard the low undertones of a female voice, and curiously I peeked my head out of the kitchen to see the incandescent glow of the television screen.

I frowned slightly, biting my lip. I hadn't left the telly on- hadn't even touched it for days. Going back into the kitchen, I turned the kettle off and slowly but silently made my way to the couch to see if the culprit were sitting there. Now obviously I knew that had a burglar come into my home he wouldn't sit and watch the telly, but there were people far worse than burglars who knew I didn't lock my doors. A certain kraut and a certain frog were cases in point… Not that I hated the people I conversed with and befriended, simply that usually when one was around there wound up being a fight between two of the people in the house.

Honestly, it had been the reason I had been avoiding Francis lately, as Alfred and he had a race or rivalry going on that I neither cared for nor paid attention to. It was a long, long history of loving Francis and then growing to love Alfred, and now they were trying to force me to choose… It all hurt my head and I just wanted it to end. The fact of the matter was that I loved them both, but Alfred _needs_ me more… Francis can do well off on his own. But, I digress.

Nearly tripping on a random misplaced shoe made me realize instantly that the person who hijacked my living room was either that stupid insufferable American git that was always on my mind, or the stupid insufferable German kraut that was always letting himself in and raiding my liquor cabinet (Drinking buddies is a broad term that generally means, in Gilbert's case, 'Let me have access to your beer when you have it and I won't share mine! But maybe I'll pay your tabs at the pubs because I'm damn awesome like that.' His words exactly.) If it _was_ Gilbert, I fully planned to shave his eyebrows and dye his hair bright pink… You fall asleep in the house of a man who loves to prank; you're going to get it.

All the same, I made it over to the couch in a relatively good time, and what I found there in the semi-darkness made my heart swell and warm. Alfred had indeed slipped in silently, and probably thinking I was asleep, the American had gone to watch television on the couch. He had fallen asleep sitting up and his head was now bent forward, leaning on his chest/shoulder at an awkward angle. Soft snores were rising from him and his glasses were perched precariously on his nose, the throw blanket that normally sat on the back of the sofa halfway across his legs.

Gently sitting down beside him, I slid the remote that was resting in his loose fingers out of his hand and turned the telly off, leaning back slowly against the back of the sofa. I waited for a moment to move, listening to Alfred's soft snores as I made sure the sudden lack of light and sound hadn't affected his sleeping. Leaning forward, I placed the remote quietly onto the coffee table before looking towards him and reaching towards his silhouette, taking his glasses gently off his face and folding the arms before placing them on the table.

He let out a particularly loud, half-interrupted snore and I heard him suck in a breath, his soft voice murmuring my name groggily. "Arfur?"

I smiled softly, leaning back again. "Hey, there."

Sounds of his jacket rustling came to my ears and I smiled wider, knowing he was looking for me despite the darkened room. "Where're you?"

Gently, I reached up and touched his face (having the advantage because I could see his slight outline from the light pollution coming in from the window). "Right here."

I felt his lips stretch into a smile against my hand and he kissed my thumb gently, slowly moving out of my touch and startling me slightly by laying his head in my lap. All the same, I allowed my hand to find his hair and play with it gently, leaning back into the couch with a small yawn. It wasn't long before Alfred's breathing evened out and he was asleep once more, using my lap as a pillow. Slowly feeling down is leg, I pulled once I felt my fingers touch the blanket and smoothed it over him, finding warmth enough for myself from his body.

My mind wandered off as I let my eyes slip closed, a deep, contented sigh running through me as I sat with Alfred asleep in my lap. Sometimes, the dark wasn't as lonely as it could be.


	5. Seeking Solace

**Theme: Seeking Solace**

**Rating: PG-13 for booze**

**Characters/pairings: Francis Bonnefoy AKA France/ Arthur Kirkland AKA England**

**Word Count- 1,429  
**

* * *

It was with a heavy heart that I ran towards my one and only comfort. It wasn't home, as one would expect. No, home was something that didn't exist for me- my house was simply a place that provided shelter, nothing more; too many ghosts of the past resided there. There was nothing there that held any gravitation for me, nothing I held close to my heart or particularly meaningful. Home was not a place of comfort, and home was nothing I could fathom as a place of rest. It hurt too much there to be a place I could retreat to. Often, I was told to get over the 'empty nest' feel, especially after Alfred had left me; but what do any of them know?

It wasn't Alfred that I ran to, no, never him. No matter how close we seemed to get all I could do on my own was push him further away; assure him I was perfectly fine and somewhere that I was content with in my life. It wasn't as if I felt I couldn't trust the lad; no, he was one I held very dear in my heart, even putting aside all of my grudges. He was a bright boy, always happy, except for when my eyes drooped into an expression of hurt and despair. He would always blame himself, trying to hold me and tell me he would make it all better, even if he were the problem. It only hurt me more to hear him speak in such a way and so it was for the best for both of us that I ran the opposite direction.

No, the person who always found it in his heart to listen as I despaired was one I hardly treated with respect. The place I always ran to was one that, had I been asked, I would freely say was a disgusting place I would never dream of going, and that the cuisine was fit for only the bottom feeders that resided there. He, if asked, would say that he hated me and that it was only fitting of me to suffer in my lonesome, empty house. If asked, both of us would deny any relation, even if he were in essence my older brother. The person I ran to when life got too much to bear was the one and only Francis Bonnefoy.

Sure, he was a git. Sure, we never got along and I he infuriated me. Sure, we had been rivals for centuries, and probably fighting for longer. Despite the… whatever it was… I felt of him, he had always been _there._ He was always there, regardless of whether I wanted to deck him or whether I wanted to cry until my eyes burned and my throat itched. He was there whether I wanted to throw myself into the channel that separated us to drown or if I wanted to call him every bloody name in the book, receiving nothing but smiles and murmurs of affection in return. He was there for me when Alfred and I fought, regardless of whether he was involved or not.

It was, I remember, the hardest blow to the stomach when he had helped Alfred out during _that_ time. It had infuriated me, yes; though the way I had _sobbed_ into my pillow at night during the entire time was one that I shall never forget. And, had I my way, neither of them would ever know. I had always been alone, but that was the only time I was truly _alone_. I had been severely wounded multiple times during the last half of that century, both emotionally and physically; the wounds that hurt the worst never showing to the public eye.

I distinctly remember that I had refused to talk to either of them for nearly a century, avoided them like the Plague had returned and was running rampant in their bodies. I remember flinching away from the sad looks shown by both parties, and how I had always lowered my head and stared into my cup of tea as I tried to ignore the whispering of the other nations behind my back. And yet, the fact that Francis had always _tried_ to approach me, make it up to me, _admit he had gone too far_ had always nagged at the back of my mind, telling me to run to him and to hold on to him and _sob_.

One night, my head heavy with rum and my heart aching with despair, it was him that came to me. I had been drinking at a pub near the coastline in England, far away from London and probably further away from my head than I should have been. I was crying in front the bar tender, one that had been serving me as many drinks as I had ordered regardless of how drunkenly depressed I had become. It was the one thing I enjoyed about the coastline pubs- they never asked and they never cared.

At first, I hadn't recognized the taller, more slender Frenchman as he had scraped the stool back and sat next to me. He had lost some weight and his hair was longer, the usually prominent stubble gracing his chin no longer there and his hair pulled back into a powder blue ribbon. His traditional military uniform had been retired, and the man had instead opted for a simple white poet's shirt and black slacks. He said nothing to me as I had sat there, simply ignoring his presence and sipping at my gin and tonic.

There was no words from him at first, barring the soft query for merlot as the barkeep asked what he had wanted. His voice had gone slightly deeper and while it held some familiarity, I still held no recognition in my mind of the other man. I pushed my empty glass aside; fifth drink of the hour swirling anxiously in my stomach. The soft, deep, _suave_ French accented voice whispered gently, a small smile practically visible on the lilting words as I forced my eyes to him drunkenly, trying to sort out the blurs that was his face. "Come 'ere often, monsieur?"

I shrugged my shoulders in response, grunting softly as I waved the barkeep back over. "Rum this time, please."

As the barkeep turned to oblige my requests, the Frenchman beside me spoke up again, murmuring, "I am surpaised, monsieur, zhat you 'ave not been celebrating. Eet eez Saint George's day, vraiment?"

I blinked dully, looking at him through my misted eyes. Honestly I had forgotten what day it was, and if it were my birthday then I would have no interest anyhow. No one cared for the date, anyway, and I hardly cared for myself any more than I cared for other people. I hadn't for a long time at that point. "Eh, jus' another day…."

A small, sad hum sounded from the Frenchman and he murmured softly, "You do not recognaize me, Angleterre? … And yet you see me evairy day… Art'ur, s'il vous plait..."

Had I not been drunk, I probably would have run from the bar as fast as I could. But, as it were, I was horribly beyond wasted, and as mentioned before I was quite painfully alone. I tuned into the Frenchman's words and listened as the bar tender placed the glass in front of me. "Let bygones be bygones? Alfred et I, we miss you, Angleterre… Et, Alfred, 'e needs 'elp…"

My shoulders tensed and I, despite how much I regret the statement now, had muttered to him gently. "Why should I care?"

With that I downed the glass of rum and swayed on my stool, blinking. "Art'ur…"

The next thing I had realized, I was in Francis' home with a blanket wrapped around me as I shuddered, hiding from the light. I had passed out in the bar and completely slept through a day and a half, and when I had finally woken up Francis was beside me, half asleep in a chair and I had clung to him and sobbed for hours. We talked during the time, soft whispers between us as he realized how truly devastated and _depressed_ I had been. But, I digress.

Currently, I stay sitting by the sea as I cling to him, sand blowing in the wind through our hair and the Frenchman murmuring little comforts through the whistling nature of the coast's air. Something awful had happened in my country and my people were hurting… And, somehow, the only way I knew I could find solace was by seeking for it in the Frenchman's arms.

My pride and vulnerability had long since been given to him.

* * *

Sorry I kind of fail at French accents.

**s'il vous plait** - Please

**Angleterre-** England

**vraiment**- Is that right?

**monsieur**- Mister


	6. 4:29 AM

At 4:29 AM life seems to be at a standstill. It's just before dawn, and so it's the darkest it can possibly outside before the sky begins to brighten. It's a time that is unheard of by anyone except those passionate lovers who show their love well into the morning or those at the other end of the spectrum, fighting until cheeks run red from salty tears. I happen to be neither- rather; I am just a tired old soul hanging out to dry in the pre-dawn silence. The air is void of any sound; even the gently composed melodies of the cicadas and crickets find no footholds in the smooth walls of the beating human heart.

At 4:29 AM, I sit, a cigarette dangling from my lips as I lay in bed next to a sleeping Alfred, who is silent save for the smallest of snores as his head rests against my chest and I take the smallest savoured puffs of sweet blackened air into my lungs. The moon, full and pale in all its blind glory, trails down in streams of lunar beams that dance across my face through the slits in the blinds. It is the only light (barring the burning orange end of tobacco) in the pitch black, and had it been a week or so later I would not be able to see my own hand less than two inches away from my eyes.

The world has stalled on her axis and the seas have calmed their turbulence, agreeing for once that now is the time to sleep and that the world should not be stirring. The air is still and stagnant despite the open window, and the arms wrapped loosely around my waist could have just as well belonged to a corpse at this point. My heart felt still as the air, and my breath even stiller. A thin sheen of sweat glistened across my body in the sticky-sweet summer morning, thoughts muddily pushing through my deadened and sleep-deprived brain as I tried to reach a state of less-than-aware. I vaguely registered moisture collecting beneath my eyes.

Each puff of smoke forced my lungs to breathe- inhale and exhale the pathogens that I so willingly fed into my body and breaking the stalling of time. _Darkest before dawn, darkest before dawn…_ The words echoes through my brain in their macabre mantra as I pulled the cigarette from my lips, exhaling a puff of smoke into the air as my free hand moved up to play with Alfred's silken hair. I was breaking the order of things, rebelling against the disjointed scheme time sent my way as I repeated the motions of inhaling saccharine smoke and replacing my depleting oxygen with the cancers that could hardly be worse than the diseases of living in this modern world.

At 4:29 AM, everything is skewed. The light dancing in my eyes was just bright enough to cause me to squint away from the window, and yet it was not strong enough yet to make me feel small and insignificant as the sun could and did every day. It flirted with the golden hue of Alfred's hair and turned it haunting, yellow-tinted silver as my fingers brushed the strands into forcing the moonbeams to dance. They say moonbeams cause lunacy; or rather, the used to say… One can't be sure that staring too long at the moon hasn't caused these fanciful ideas of the world pausing just for me.

Nothing could save me from my own mind, after all, and while these musings were perfectly fine in my stoic discontent, which was to say that, had anyone been able to crawl into the recesses of my brain, how would they find me anything but moonstruck? _You speak of the world, Arthur,_ I told myself quietly, _and yet you know nothing but pain._ The thought struck a chord deep within and I smiled; a wistful, pathetic little ghost of a smile. It was then that the cicadas and the crickets began their crying once more as the digital display beside me turned the numbers up by one.

At 4:30 AM, lost hope returns and allows the weary to finally rest…


End file.
